


bad girls like good guys

by ruruka



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Kissing, Oral Sex, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 19:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8546620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruruka/pseuds/ruruka





	

the scratch of nails along his jawline is deafening.

it's hot, it's so so fucking hot, the way she works her hands and her hips and her zero round the middle figure. it's hot and she's hot- _god,_ is she hot. sexy, sexy, sexy; that's what sells. he thinks he'd trade his whole fortune for it sans a lick of hesitancy.

preferably would there be a lick contrasting. it comes in a swipe up his throat's front, and if she feels the bob on her tongue, there's no indication. her grin teases behind his ear, and he's just _furious,_ because he _hates_ her, has said so a multitude of time a myriad of ways, has pushed her shoved her stung her silly with harsh cracks of voice. and yet, she's the tang to his vodka and the shine to his shoes. and yet, she's sitting on his lap in nothing but what shan't be viewed by eyes decent, and the sweat nipping his nape isn't from the temperature.

their bedroom is dark, glints lighting their dual sets of blues (though he loathes the comparison, because her shade of blue is not the same as his; his blue is a royal veneer, whilst hers gleams the ostracized heathen whimpering at the palace doormat). their bedroom is dark, as light's an adversary for the sickly candy sweet kisses she trails down his chest. shoulders roll against the forcing of fabric off. though it's taken well time, he bears nudity from waist up, thinks it soon be full, because enoshima junko's devil fingers are working at a belt that the leather of which is worth more than her entire life, unfastening with a flourish of greed. she's an old favorite melody not heard since years gone, leaves him in tight throbbing and the dictionary components of comfort and ache. she's an old favorite melody he can't switch the loop off of, her chorus burning the back of his throat. her chorus- it's the lift of hips to remove from them modesty. the lacy panties slide down her ankle and onto the hardwood.

how one should describe the faintest tingle of pleasure up the spinal cord- that's the feel of her fingers hooked at the waist of his bottoms, and the sensation thereafter of night's air wrapping around exposure. there's a moment in which he's no one, a moment in which she's stripping him to pure milky white, then she's bounding up to kiss his thighs that tense beneath her lipstick marks. he knows better than to force her to do anything she doesn't care to, knows better than to force her elsewhere before she wants to. knows better than the touch he takes into her bubblegum curls and yanks upward to delve that annoying mouth of hers to good use.

knows better, but, fuck it.

she does not take kindly to his gruffness, though accepts either way the mouthful of cock, puckering laps and kisses up the length. his fingers weave pleased patterns through her scalp. when she bites, they tug, and the smirk encircling him only makes him more eager. she doesn't _need_ to make that hot little gag noise, as he's far from as big as she can handle, but all guys are the same and all guys like to think they're capable of choking a bitch with their dick, so she gags and he groans, and the moon's pale beams tantalize the skin of his chest.

the same second he thinks, eyes proud in their hazy stare, thinks that she belongs in this position, lesser than he the supreme, the superior- the same second he thinks it, she ceases, drawling tongue instead up his navel. it's irritating, and she's irritating- _god,_ is she irritating. vexing awful ugly at the core. enoshima is just so terrible, and her kisses so sour now against his sinner's lips.

they're sentimental about dead nothing. carnal exchanges are no exception; she moans into her sit atop him, feels heat twining heat, feels her hands gripping the sides of his neck and her teeth gleaming cynical in the darkness.

he does not move, allows, permits, expects the work to be done all by the other. and it is- little pops of waist up and down and down and up and down until she's mewling, curling at the extremities. she's not the melody, he decides, not the single track but the album in its entirety, and the bounce of her hips and the tightness of her pussy around him make him wonder why he doesn't frequent his music collection more often.

right- because he hates music. hates music. hates the wrap of fingers around his throat that threaten vise at any second. hates himself for hoping they do. _kiss me,_  begs from soul to mind, relays only the contempt of tight pursing expression. their blues aren't the same. they're not the same. he's stained glass, she's a kaleidoscope. name brand, store value. king and queen night and day catcher and rye. but he begs that little whimpering _kiss me, kiss me,_ with his stained glass name brand king night catcher gaze, he begs for her to meet him and the press of lips to his is pure honey. pure honey with its shelf life since passed, but honey all the same.

he'd sooner rinse with arsenic listerine than admit her finds solace in her touch.

then he's the one with the symphonic mess of choking gags, only it's real this time and he's struggling to breathe against the crush of her hands. and he's so devastatingly handsome she thinks herself ultimate luck.

the press of her thumbs' pads against his throat is just _divine_. he coughs, he sputters, he chokes on his virtues. _harder,_ his lolling eyes plead, _harder, more. you could kill me and i'd still adore you._

she'd never kill him, though- at least not until she's done with him. her _done_ arrives aside the arch of her back and the twist to her waist, and her arms twine upward. he's freed from the grip around his throat only to be suffocated by the forward push of her bare chest. catch him complaining, though- _funny_. the space betwixt her perfect breasts fits his perfect face perfectly. and they're perfect perfect sexy perfect, because that's what the world expects of them. perfect.

she comes with an elongated vowel of a moan, shape of mouth matching the _ooo! oooh! oooooooo-!_ and he's not far behind, gripping her hips as if his life should depend on it, head tipping backward and coughing up more anguished, delectable pleasure. and he loves her, he loves her loves her loves her, loves her panting finish, catlike claws scratching at his shoulders of which she wraps in a loose embrace with her face nuzzled into the crook of one. he's sticky and warm and she loves it, loves him loves him loves- but there's no crave of reiteration for what is voiced so very often. she tells him blunt, tells him in her grinning kisses and her nasty fantasies relayed aside them. the now breathes easy silence between them, and he loves her, sure, loves her with his glasses off and the shades pinned shut, and they're alone and they're alone and they're so _stupid_ and so in love, he finds it a vice to _not_ let arms rest over her back and _not_ let his eyes fall shut whilst drinking in the honor of her throbbing heartbeat against his skin.

perfect stupid lovely strangers, lovely perfect stupid lovers. she's the song and the album and the day to his night and queen to his king, and he's the king and the night and the cellophane wrap melting against the hot oven door. and when she kisses his neck, he's the audacity to enjoy it.

he'd walk across the sky for her, if she asked. but enoshima does not ask things- she demands them, orders he do just as she likes just when she likes, and he thinks he rather likes to comply to her every whim, for whatever reason. she's gorgeous, even with a core so rotten it stains his skin with tar. she's gorgeous, and there's no place he'd rather be than in his current state of lax disarray, nighttime glow inebriating them in their sprawl across the sheets. inward, they lay on each a side, her fingertips tracing the shape of his jaw. her eyes pinch in a smile, the most breathtaking kaleidoscope swirl to ever dizzy him.

the feel of hands trailing his collarbones is the lull to his thrum. she'll run him ragged at the peak of the next sunrise, he knows, and there's a touch of zeal folded into the hum of sleep.


End file.
